“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” He paced to the window and back again. His mind was in a muddle; his muscles bunched with tension.
All of his plans were crumbling around him, and he had no recourse at all. No action he could take to resolve things with Lady Heatherton, and no other titled society darling waiting in the wings to wear his gowns. No one on whom he could display his skill to the eyes of the beau monde. Only courtesans. Pretty Horsebreakers.
Unless . . .
A spark of an idea flickered in his mind. A ludicrous notion, born more of desperation than good sense.
But no. It could never work.
Could it?
Ahmad’s pulse accelerated. He looked at the clock on the mantel. It was a quarter past five o’clock. Fifteen whole minutes into the fashionable hour. There was still time if he hurried.
“What I need,” he said at last, “is some fresh air to clear my head.” He turned to Mira. “Will you join me for a walk in Hyde Park?”
“At this hour?” She wrinkled her nose. “It won’t be very restful. Everyone in Mayfair will be out walking and riding. Even your Miss Maltravers, I don’t doubt.”
Ahmad fetched their coats. “I’m counting on it.”
Twelve
Riding home from the park, Evelyn narrowly missed the first crack of thunder.
It was a portent of worse weather to come.
The approaching evening brought heavy rains and dark clouds that blotted out the setting sun. It left a damp chill in Evelyn’s heart and limbs. A feeling at odds with the sense of triumph she’d experienced as she’d entered Rotten Row on Hephaestus. The sense of beauty and power she’d felt until . . .
Until she’d seen him.
What in heaven’s name was Stephen Connaught doing in town? He was a country gentleman, never setting foot outside Sussex, except for the handful of years when he’d gone away to university. He’d always professed to despise London.
“You’d never want to live there, would you?” he’d asked her once.
“Never,” she’d answered. “I’m happy in Combe Regis.”
“You’re sensible,” he’d said approvingly. “Too sensible to indulge in a season in town. You’d never suit London society. And there’s no use your going there just to be disappointed.”
Evelyn had been stung by his words. Hurt, and a trifle confused. Like much of what Stephen had said to her during the last year of their friendship, it had seemed to be an insult wrapped in a compliment. Words engineered to make her doubt her own value.
His silence had made her doubt herself even more.
After the scandal, he’d not only stopped speaking to her, but when they’d next encountered each other in the village, he’d given her the cut direct. Everyone had seen him do it. Everyone had known.
That had hurt worst of all.
Back in her room at Russell Square, Evelyn changed out of her habit and boots and into a comfortable dress and a pair of soft slippers. Wrapping an old cashmere shawl about herself, she repaired to the drawing room. It was less drafty there than her bedchamber, and warmer, too. The wall sconces were lit, and a fire blazed in the hearth.
Snuggling up in the cushioned window seat, she perused the society page of her uncle’s daily paper in an effort to refocus her attention on the task at hand.
A futile enterprise.
Stephen was here, and with him all of the knowledge of Fenny’s scandal. Who knew but that he might rake it all up again?
It was Evelyn’s greatest fear. That her older sister’s conduct would reach out from the past to, once more, spoil the prospects of the Maltravers family. It was bad enough that the scandal had hurt them three years ago. But to do so again, right when Evelyn was on the verge of making a success of things?
She couldn’t stand to think of it.
Her younger sisters didn’t deserve to have their futures thwarted. They had hopes and dreams of their own, some of which Evelyn knew and others she only guessed at.
Gussie was a gentle soul who craved a home and children. Caro wanted to write her own gothic novel someday. Bette had often mentioned the possibility of attending the Ladies College in Bedford Square. And Izzy longed for travel. To see Paris, Rome, and Constantinople.
What chance had they for any of that if Evelyn didn’t succeed in her goal?
Resting her cheek against the rain-streaked glass, she made another vain attempt at reading the society page. She was still huddled there, nearly a half hour later, when Mrs. Quick appeared in the doorway.
“There’s a tradesman come calling at the kitchen door, Miss Maltravers. He’s asking to speak with you.”
Evelyn lowered the paper. “With me? Whatever for?”
“He claims to be your habit-maker.”
Evelyn’s pulse jumped. Mr. Malik was here? She wasn’t set to see him again until next week. She’d quite resigned herself to the fact.
“Shall I send him away?” Mrs. Quick asked.
“No, no. That won’t be necessary.” Setting aside the paper, Evelyn hastily rose from her seat. “I don’t suppose my uncle’s back from the museum?”
“Not yet.”
“And Agnes? Has she returned?”
“No, miss. I wouldn’t expect her back before eight o’clock.”
Evelyn smoothed her faded gray dress. It was only Mr. Malik. They’d been alone together plenty of times in far more intimate circumstances than these. She didn’t need her uncle to lend her countenance. And she certainly didn’t require the presence of her maid.
But it wasn’t her lack of a chaperone that made her hesitate. It was that kiss.
That kiss.
It had changed everything. And now—
“Miss Maltravers?”
Evelyn sighed. “Very well.” She moved to stand in front of the fire. “You may show him in.”
Mrs. Quick returned promptly. “Mr. Malik, miss.”
Mr. Malik strode into the room. He was wearing a dark wool coat and trousers, his shoulders squared and his expression intent, looking for all the world like a man resolved to face down an implacable foe. He held a dented dress box in his arms. “Miss Maltravers.” He bowed to her.
Evelyn’s heart beat swiftly. “Mr. Malik. This is an unexpected pleasure.” She turned to Mrs. Quick. “Thank you, Mrs. Quick. That will be all.”
The housekeeper departed without so much as a look of curiosity.